by Vicky Adin
Laura and Jane blossomed at the school at the top of Wellesley Street East, opposite Albert Park, a short distance up the hill behind them. They still looked to Jamie first for approval, then Sally, but increasingly they were turning to her. Especially since she’d started to teach them to sew and crochet. Both girls showed ability, particularly Laura.
Maggie had claimed the kitchen as her domain and seemed content in the role of housekeeper and cook looking after their material needs. Although she was still often quiet and aloof, she no longer sat staring at walls, lost in her own world.
Jamie – she wasn’t sure about Jamie. He wasn’t the same cousin she remembered from back home, or the one who’d jumped on a cargo net to chase Maggie. He had plenty of male companionship and went off cheerfully to whatever work was on offer, and which seemed to change every week. But he also stayed out late sometimes and was starting to drink heavily again.
Sally loved everything about the shop, which had come as a surprise to Brigid. Sally had been an opportunist, taking what chances were necessary to earn a living, and she needed to be around people. The shop had allowed a latent talent to flourish, and her head for numbers was a great help.
Yes, Brigid was happy. Auckland was a different town to Brisbane, smaller, with a beautiful harbour – once you passed the foul-smelling stream oozing from the pipes at the foot of Queen Street – and the people were friendlier. Nobody seemed concerned with where you came from, only what you were doing. She liked a society that judged people on their ability.
The climate was kinder too. The sun shone most days, but not nearly so hot, and she’d thrived in the freshness of the spring winds and rain. Either she, Maggie or Sally would walk with the girls through the park to school in the mornings. Not that they needed to, and often the girls objected, but the women enjoyed the park. The trees offered shade and a pleasant place to walk, to meet and greet people and admire the fountain. Everything appeared greener and brighter than in Brisbane, and the park became a haven, when time permitted.
Her biggest concern was still Jamie – and Maggie. Where was it all leading?
Still, now wasn’t the time to worry about that, she chided herself. There were more important things to think about: the new range of lacework still to be made, expanding her clientele, and where her next shipment of fabric and threads was coming from.
And Christmas. They had to celebrate Christmas – even if everything was all upside down in the middle of summer, in this topsy-turvy world.
Life was good.
13
Double Jeopardy
Saturday, 10th December 1887
Jamie kicked the rubbish bin as he staggered past, a bottle swinging from his hand. A small rebellion when likened to the fights he usually got into, but helpful nevertheless. Where was this better life he was supposed to be coming to? He’d thought he’d found it on the ship. He thought he’d found his future in Maggie, the tall, brown-haired girl from the north who had captured his heart, but so far it hadn’t been much of a new life. He couldn’t even find decent work.
He and Maggie still took evening walks, but less frequently, and all the fire had gone out of her since ... well, since that day. Michael deserved what he got, but even in death he had succeeded in destroying her life, and Jamie’s with it. They’d had dreams, the two of them – bold dreams with goals he had to measure up to – but none of it mattered any more. It seemed as if Maggie had accepted a lesser place in life as punishment for what she’d done.
“I’m at ease here, tending for Brigid and the girls, I am. And I do still need you, Jamie, but not like before. I need your strength to know I did right – for the girls. Whatever happens to me now doesn’t matter. But the girls ...” She drifted off to her inner world again, leaving Jamie bereft. Nothing he said made any difference.
His fear of being followed had abated as time passed, but with Maggie as a constant reminder of what could have been, he was eaten up with doubts. He still worried that some clue might lead the police to them, even though there were no names on any passenger lists coming to New Zealand. But what if they did find them? Then what?
He stared up at the strange night sky, wishing for something worthwhile to cling to. Twelve months to the day since he’d jumped ship, full of hope, and now he felt as though he was back in Ireland twelve months before that, knowing life was leading him nowhere. He felt trapped.
Oh, for sure, he had Brigid, whom he adored, and the girls reminded him of his little sisters and cousins, but a man needed more than cousins and sisters to sustain him. A man needed a woman.
Slowly, he’d come to the realisation that he hated city life. He hated the routine. He hated the hard surfaces, the noise, and expectations. He was a country person. It had taken a journey of many thousands of miles and many months for him to come to the decision that the good parts of Ireland – clean fresh air, animals, crops and a family – were what he wanted here. He didn’t want the hardships and poverty that had gone with it, people starving and the English landlords taking everything – that’s why he’d left. He wanted a just life where hard work brought wellbeing and pride.
A man needed his pride.
Sitting around the table after dinner one evening later that week, with the girls playing happily at some game, the adults chatted amiably.
Christmas, and how they would celebrate this year, was high on the agenda.
“I can make us a spiced beef roast, just like from home,” offered Maggie quietly.
Laura jumped up and down and clapped her hands. “Can we make cards to give our friends at school?”
“Aye. We can do that.” Stirrings of gaiety tickled Brigid’s insides. “We can decorate the room too. And I’ll teach you to make paper chains. Jamie, can you find us some greenery to use instead of the holly we had at home? Oh, and we must light a candle in the window on Christmas Eve to guide Mary and Jesus to us.”
Jamie wasn’t the slightest bit interested in any celebrations. “Ach, don’t waste your money. I tell you, Brigid, t’ings is not looking good. I hear about men being put out of work for the slightest of notions. And there’s endless talk about the recession, and it’s getting worse. Folks are worried.”
While Brisbane had been having a building boom in the few years before Brigid and the others arrived, it seemed New Zealand had not enjoyed the same prosperity.
“I wonder if Mrs Browne knew about the slowdown?” asked Sally.
Jamie shook his head. “I doubt it. She wouldn’t have risked her money if she had.”
Brigid wanted nothing to dampen her spirits. “We’re doing well enough for now, so don’t fret, Jamie. We’ll just have to come up with some other ideas to attract customers. I am determined to make a go of it. I like it here, and I want to stay.”
“Me too,” said Sally.
Jamie remained silent.
He’d made up his mind. He was leaving – as soon as the New Year was in. He’d go. Somewhere. Anywhere. He couldn’t stand the guilt any longer.
14
Make or Break
Monday, 2nd April 1888
“Something’s not adding up,” Sally said to Brigid, after totting up the takings. “We should be doing better than this, what with all the interest you’ve created. There’s lots of customers, and word is getting around. I can tell, ’cos I know the regulars and can spot the new ones. But they’re spending less each time they come in.”
“But we’ve been doing so well,” said Brigid. “Surely you must be mistaken?”
“Nay lass, I wish I were.” The small shipment Mrs Browne sent across had met the Christmas market, but Sally was aware of how low the stock was getting again. “And there’s more on tick than you realise.”
Sally had never had to keep books before as she’d been able to account for her card winnings and tips in her head. Her newfound ability with figures surprised them all, including herself, and keeping a ledger had come naturally to her. But she was worried. Brigid had said she needed a lot more f
or the winter season coming up. “We’ll have to ask people to pay their accounts sooner, that’s all.”
Brigid bit her lip. “Is that a good idea?”
Sally knew Mrs B had been guarded about how much more stock she could provide. Mr Browne was asking too many questions and ongoing shipments would be difficult. The matter between Philip and Mr Browne had still not been resolved either, and until Mr Browne could be persuaded around to their way of thinking, she suggested it would be better if Brigid found a local source.
To do that, they needed money.
“I wish I didn’t have to do this to you, hen,” said Sally. “You’ve enough worries on your plate.”
The household was still reeling from the shock of Jamie leaving. Sally had been through some terrible days, but that day was one to match them all.
As the months passed without any sinister knock at the door, Sally began to believe she had escaped the clutches of that Carruthers maniac, and convinced herself the police in New Zealand would have no interest in old events in Townsville. She thought the fear had gone, but it hadn’t. She was tied to Jamie and Maggie in ways she couldn’t break, whether she liked it or not.
Brigid had pleaded with Jamie to stay, distraught at the notion she had failed him – that she would lose him again – and alarmed at the heartache he was inflicting on them all.
But the look in the girls’ eyes was what tore at Sally’s heart. She could have killed him herself for the pain he was causing them, let alone what he was doing to the rest of them. She didn’t think she would ever forgive him for that, nor for abandoning Brigid and leaving her to pick up the pieces of his failure. But he wasn’t listening.
Maggie had retreated further into herself, if that were at all possible, although no one could fault her work. She maintained the house to an exacting standard, but the girls turned to Brigid for comfort. Brigid was the one who talked with them, played with them, taught them.
Laura’s eleventh birthday in February had been a solemn affair, even with Brigid’s frantic attempts to make the girls laugh. Only after, had Sally found out Brigid’s birthday had passed without anyone noticing.
Brigid deserved better.
Sally had stacked some savings away, and Maggie was a canny one with the household budget, but it wouldn’t last long if the takings dropped. Most of their clients were working girls and wives. What they needed was for upper-class ladies to buy from them.
“We’re going to need credit from somewhere. What happened with that last bloke after you talked with him?”
Brigid had approached a local importer, but he’d been less than helpful. “Don’t come to me asking for credit. If you bring cash, I’ll sell you goods to match, but I’m not dealing with a chit of a girl who knows nothing about business.”
Sally had done her best to reassure Brigid she was a knowledgeable merchant on the brink of great things but never mind what she said, sometimes the unassuming Brigid of old returned.
“I couldn’t go back there. He was right. I don’t know anything about running a store.”
“Maybe not, but you’re learning – we both are. For goodness’ sake, trust your gut. You’ve come a long way. You know more than I ever realised about fabrics and threads, and you’ve learnt all the proper words. I’ve got the head for figures, and you’ve got the skills. What more do we need?”
Sally knew the answer to that – a man. Ridiculous as it seemed, a man would never encounter the problems Brigid was having. Despite the burgeoning women’s suffrage movement, which was trying to get a bill through parliament to allow women to vote, men still ruled the world, and especially the world of money.
Sally paid little heed to those women. They were against alcohol of any form or quantity, and Sally still liked her tot of gin now and then. But, if it stopped men like Jamie doing dumb things, she supposed they had a point.
She sighed. She didn’t miss the falseness of deference and coquetry, knowing what men were capable of, but an all-female house was a curse sometimes. She’d known some mighty strong women who’d been successful in what they’d done – Emily McKendrick and Beatrice Browne were two such women, but both had a man with money behind them. After working with Emily and Brigid, she knew which she preferred.
“I tell you what. I’ll go see the bank manager. If I take along the figures and show him what we’ve been doing so far, and outline our plans ...”
“What plans?” said Brigid. “None of our plans have quite worked the way we wanted, have they?”
“For pity’s sake, girl. What’s with all this gloom? You’ve done a grand job. Times are tough and you have to spend money to make money. I learnt that in the back alleys and at the card games. Bluff, girl. Bluff.”
The Sally who emerged from the shop a few days later was the Sally who had fronted up to the bar in the Queens Hotel in Townsville. Dressed in her best finery and exuding confidence, she was determined to achieve her goal. Brigid deserved it; the girls needed it; and Maggie – well, she didn’t really care about her, but Maggie wasn’t going anywhere. Poor Brigid, lumbered with that encumbrance. And Sally had to admit this was as much for her as for anyone else. Her future rested on Brigid’s success.
“Mr Fortesque,” trilled Sally, extending her hand. She had checked all the banks, their reputations and their managers. She chose one of the longest standing, whose manager was reputed to be an educated and progressive man, and whose wife was known in the right social circles. “I’m so grateful you could see me.”
Mr Fortesque led her into his office and showed her a seat. “Now, Miss ... um,” he checked the papers before him, “Forsythe. How can I help you?”
“It’s not what you can do for me, exactly, but what I can offer you. I believe I can offer your bank an opportunity too good to miss.”
A flicker of a smile crinkled his face. He folded his hands on the desk and leant forward. “And how are you going to do that?”
Sally settled to her story. “‘Miss Brigid’s Ladies Mercer’ is the newest enterprise in town. In a matter of a few months, it has grown beyond all expectations, and we wish to expand. To do that we need to employ more people and purchase more stock. And better still, from an investment point of view, by doing that we will gain prominence by dressing the notable ladies of Auckland in the finest and latest fashions. Would that not gladden your wife’s heart, Mr Fortesque?”
Sally fluttered her eyelids and looked at him impishly. “You do have a wife, Mr Fortesque, don’t you? After all, I feel sure a man as charming and astute as yourself would have been snatched up long ago.”
He fluffed and puffed for a moment and adjusted his necktie. “Mrs Fortesque would indeed wish to be considered the best-dressed lady about town, but she already has a dressmaker.”
“I’m sure she has, and I’m sure the lady in question is capable, but only a select few have had the privilege of applying Miss Brigid’s accomplishments to their benefit. And it’s not the making of the gown that makes the difference, it’s the design and accoutrements.”
Brigid had learnt that word from Mrs Browne, and Sally had practised it over and over to make sure she said it correctly, hoping to sound knowledgeable.
“I’ll need more information than simply your opinion, of course. I’ll need figures.”
“Of course.” Sally reached into her handbag, removed a set of papers and handed them across the desk. “I think you’ll find these are what you want.”
“How did you do it?” Brigid grasped Sally’s arm to steady herself.
“This time, apart from a bit of flattery, I told the truth. I told him your plans, I gave him my figures, and he decided to help us.”
Brigid stared in disbelief at the bank contract in front of her. She’d never known such money existed, and it almost scared her into refusing it.
“Seems his daughter, who is not one of the best dressed of ladies around town, is heavily involved with the suffragettes. She’s pushing for women’s rights, and people acknowledging wome
n are intelligent, talented and – um, now what was the other word he said ... courageous, that’s it – and deserving of equal opportunities.”
“He said that?”
Brigid looked at her disbelievingly, knowing Sally was capable of making a rotten potato sound edible when she wanted to.
“Well. No. He didn’t exactly. He said that’s what these suffragettes want, and since his daughter is so convincing and my figures backed up our expectations, he believed ‘Miss Brigid’s’ worthy of support.”
But Mr Fortesque’s support came with conditions, and a warning associated with several factors: the country had been in an economic depression for some time, fewer people were arriving, and many more were leaving to go to Australia; and the wool industry had virtually dropped out of existence.
“I can’t remember all he said now,” said Sally, “but he reckons people are struggling. Wages are down, and customs duties are up, thanks to Atkinson’s new government. He says too many women work in terrible sweatshop conditions, to make ends meet. And he won’t support a business that uses sweat labour.
“But he says change is coming. He thinks the refrigerated meat and dairy industry will bring more trade in the long term. And the Liberals are making headway – they’ll be the government at the next election, he reckons, and we are to mark his words. He likes it that the unions are gaining strength and helping to protect workers, and he thinks these suffragettes have a point.
“The next twelve months aren’t going to be easy, hen. We’ll have to work hard and do some careful budgeting. But we got the money!”
Mr Fortesque also wanted to inspect the books each month, the figures needed to show growth – and would Miss Brigid kindly invite Mrs Fortesque to view her wares.
Brigid listened to the warnings and conditions with mixed feelings. “But from what you told me, we’re showing a loss. Why would he expect growth?”
Bother. She’d hoped Brigid wouldn’t notice. “I told him,” she admitted. “I embroidered the figures a bit.”